Page 1 of Hunting Her
CHAPTER ONE
NOVA
My shackles scrape against the concrete floor, their familiar weight slowing my movement forward. The sound grates, echoing through the dungeon. It’s aggressively loud with nine other sets of chains also dragging with each step.
I’ve been marched between the rows of barred cells hundreds of times. Sometimes it’s to have me clean or assist one of the high-ranking demons that live here. Other times it’s so I can be tortured—waterboarded or beaten or whatever method they want to try that day.
I prefer the cleaning, but the beatings aren’t much different than what I grew up with back home. I’d sold my soul so I could escape the abuse—but I was conned into being a demon’s slave. We’re still in the human realm and not in the Underworld, and that’s how I hold onto my hope of escaping one day.
Maybe I’ll get to live without torture eventually, if I stay smart.
My feet are bare, tiny rocks digging into the once-sensitive skin. It’s been so long since I’ve worn shoes, my soles are calloused and rough. Nothing hurts them anymore.
The prisoner in line in front of me hasn’t been here as long. She winces with each step, letting out a whispered curse when her foot lands on a pointy stone. I keep my head down, hoping for her sake that our captors didn’t hear her.
When a set of dark boots comes up beside her, I know they have.
They don’t bother to pull her out of line. I pause in my shuffle as they halt her, stepping on her foot until she cries out.
“Be quiet,” the man in dark boots commands.
She makes one more soft sound of pain before succeeding at keeping the rest in.
We start forward again, rushing to catch up with the people at the front of the line.
Leaving the moist, stagnant air of the basement behind, we trudge upstairs and into the lofty hallway of the gothic castle. Up here the floors are smoother, made of a dark polished stone. The walls are black with lit candelabras mounted every few feet, and the flickering light is accented by purple-hued daylight coming in through stained-glass windows lining one wall.
I’ve been up here more than most of the prisoners. I play nice, so I’m allowed to help with cleaning and cooking.
They torture me less than the rest too—although everyone is subject to a session in that chamber from time to time. Our captors do something to our souls in there. I feel hollower with each visit, and it’s a gap that never gets refilled.
They think I’m resigned to my fate, but I’m only biding my time, hoping I still have enough of my soul left when I’m ready to escape.
One day, I’ll have this cursed castle mapped out from top to bottom. I’ll know how to kill these demons and send them backto the Underworld, and I’ll steal the weapon I need to do it. Then I can make my move, fighting my way out and fleeing for good.
Until then, I wear their chains and act the part of the timid human that they think I am.
Our line turns left, toward a set of double doors that are polished to a gleam. A pattern of silver swirls marks the purpose of the room in a demonic language I have yet to figure out—but I know which room this is. The chapel, where they pray to their gods.
Nuvelia, goddess of the end times.
Unos, god of destruction.
Ismos, god of death.
There are other, minor gods and goddesses, but those three are the Ascendant Triad. Their demon king reports directly to them and rules with their favour.
I’ve cleaned sacrificial blood from the dark obsidian floors and accidentally slashed my skin on the sharp edges of cracked tiles, but I’ve never been brought here with a group. A cold tendril works its way up my spine, my stomach tying itself in a thick knot.
I was one of the last to be picked up and added to our line of ten prisoners. There are humans of every age in the cells of this castle, but our procession doesn’t have much variety to it. All of us are pretty and young, nice to look at despite the callouses and grime from living as captives.
Are we sacrifices?
Digging my nails into my palms, I work to calm my rapid breathing. Through torture and abuse, I can stay impassive, closing up my emotions in a little box. But facing death? I can’t accept it—I’m not ready.
My escape plan is months or even years away from being plausible, but if they’ve decided today is my end, I’ll go down swinging.
There’s a row of people waiting for us in the chapel, but I don’t look up to their faces. I don’t do anything to draw attention as I scan what I can see of my surroundings. There must be something I can use as a weapon.
